


letters to nowhere

by poedanerom



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Angst Dump, Character Death, M/M, implied stevetony - Freeform, mild bucky barnes mention, slow burn that honestly doesn't quite pay off in the end, this was honestly more of a cathartic thing than a real fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-26 00:05:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12047139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poedanerom/pseuds/poedanerom
Summary: Dear Steve,In which Tony pours what little of his feelings he can work out into a letter, because words are easier to string together on paper than in real life.





	letters to nowhere

_Dear Steve,_

 

 

 

_I've known you for this long, and first-naming you never gets any easier. It was always 'Rogers' and 'Stark', even when we were on good terms, huh? We were a bit weird that way. I'm stalling, if you can't already tell. Real emotions-- real talk-- didn't ever come quite so easily to me. You know that. I have to be honest with you: I've re-written this same letter hundreds of times, and thrown away countless compilations of half-baked thoughts. As uncomfortable as I am with first drafts, (I'm still a firm believer in the fact that I can do no wrong. First drafts are for middle-schoolers and those poor in self-confidence.) I couldn't stand it. Couldn't stand the idea of not getting everything just right. Even now, you push me to do my absolute best. It's like I could hear one of your damned lectures, projected at USO-rally quality right in my ear as I wrote it all out. I'd fight a war for you if you asked. It's also my personal opinion that you were the sole contributing factor in our victory in the war. Those soldiers couldn't have let you down, and there wouldn't be any appeal in trying, either. But. . I'm getting off track again. To save us both a few paragraphs, I think I'm writing to get some closure. Everyone else, I really do feel like I've completed my story with, and if not, I'm fine with leaving them with a brash beginning and a strong uptick in action. Endings were never really my style, anyways. You're the one person I can't let slip by without that fairytale conclusion, though, Rogers. Chin up: that makes you special by my standards. We haven't seen each other in a while, I know, but I'd heard you moved pretty close recently, and I just couldn't resist. There's a lot we left unsaid. Things we left undone. I don't particularly like to admit I have regrets, and between you and me, I think people hate when I talk about it, too. 'Tony Stark, the man who has money like he has a lack of self restraint, and_ **he** _has regrets? Psh.' No, but, really. I do regret letting you slip by me the way I did, and I also regret letting all these years pass before I could get the guts to admit it. I regret not trying to seek you out sooner. Most of all, I regret every fight we've ever had, and God, we've had so many of them. Or. . Maybe I don't regret that. I never saw you so passionate about anything as you were when we were arguing. It was always so raw. Veins throbbing with each octave we rose, spit flying every which way. . It was always so intense. Sometimes, sorry to admit, I riled you up for fun. There was something familiar in the way you screamed bloody murder at me to prove a point. Almost comforting. The_ **fire** _I managed to light in those baby blues, though, -- I could never regret that. To be quite honest, I'm running out of things to say. Everyone likes to accuse me of being able to start an argument in an empty house, but the well always ran dry when you were the one pulling the rope. You give me this certain feeling, I'd be damned if I forget. Like I swallowed a bunch of cotton, and no matter how many times I clear my throat, or how loud I shout, or how many words I try to cram past it, nothing would come out. It almost made me dizzy; the_ **power** _you must have to strike me at a loss for words. . You're a thing of wonder, Steve. Don't you ever forget it._

 

_Sincerely, Tony._

_P.S. It's been too long since I've seen you face to face._

 

 

He took a ridiculous amount of time pressing corners to corners, and creasing the lines of the paper just so. It took even longer to seal the envelope, and scrawl out an address. It would, as F.R.I.D.A.Y. had so helpfully pointed out, have cut some serious time to have the damn thing typed and printed on a label instead, neat and precise. If he had really wanted to, he probably could've automated the whole process; it would've taken less time than he had scratching out that letter. But it felt right this way; this was one thing he couldn't cheap out on, or slide the difficulty rating down until he was skating through the experience. No. He had to live this out. He had to feel the aches in his hand, and the frustration that came with not being able to find the right word. He had to stare at blank pages, or halfway-finished sentences, and sometimes, he had to crumple the whole damn thing up. That was how he knew it was real.

Tony had to take a minute to appraise his creation. He traced an idle finger over the indentations-- he'd been pressing down so hard, he carved imprints into the delicate sheet. Digits rife with callouses he'd never really cared much for prior to this moment glide across the paper; it felt strangely soft. You never think of paper as being soft. For the first time in a long time, it wasn't some metal monstrosity composed of clean lines and cutting edge technology that defied the very parameters of what was comprehendible and what wasn't. It was just. . This piece of paper. Folded up inside another, slightly thicker piece of paper. Resting flat on a splayed hand, it all looked so very delicate, but even he could appreciate the idea of such a thin thing packed heavily with emotions and quiet words that were anything but. He could rip it if he wanted to. Tear it, along with each momentously heavy word he had penned into place with the precision he took to his tech, up into little, unrecognizable shreds. Steve would never know.

His gaze remained on the little letter for as long as it took to travel into his pocket, buffered by fingers to make sure it was settled in unbent. He was still trying to process.

 

Tony took a driver with him when he went to drop the letter off at Roger's place. Hand-delivery, because that seemed to be the only thing that would seal the experience for him. He took a driver because he knew he would be too preoccupied to focus on the road, and he was willing to put his life in the hands of another to save others from his awful driving. Just this once. He found himself spacing out during the ride; he'd catch the occasional snatch of blue sky-- blue. Not quite so blue, or so bright as Roger's eyes, but well on its way-- then buildings where there had, seconds ago, been nothing obstructing the skyline. And then clear blue once more. All too soon, they had arrived. Tony barely heard the driver ask whether or not he should keep the car running; to which, he answered yes. He didn't expect to stay too long. Truthfully, he didn't really want to. As far as awkward silences went, the ones that filled the space between two old acquaintances who left things on a rather rocky note were, far and away, some of the worst. All at once, the green blur flicking past the wide window, too quick for his eyes follow, slows to the point where he can begin picking out individual trees, and the slower it gets, the harder his heart pounds in his chest. It makes him ache. The impatient rhythm stirs the place where old scars lie, and he's tempted to clutch at the space between his ribs to try and alleviate the dull throbbing there, refusing only because he felt that would make it too real. He could ignore it for just a few more minutes. By the time he gets his fingers wrapped around the handle, he was hardly able to feel them; a distinct feeling of numbness had worked its way from his feet up. The moisture on his tongue was strangely absent, too.

'Nervous,' He thought idly as he eased out of the car, one numb foot at a time. His eyes were drawn inexplicably to his loafers as he paced pavement, clearing nice little swathes of distance in a concerningly short amount of time. 'I'm nervous.' It'd explain the rapid fluttering of his pulse; fluttering like his fingers, which were drumming incessantly over the surface of the envelope in a weak attempt to burn of some of that excess energy while he still had time. Fluttering like he had trapped a butterfly in his hands and it was thrashing, trying desperately to escape from him. 'Why?'

 

He knew where Steve was staying. Even if he hadn't done some extensive, late-night research, (said late nights plus some whiskey plus a distinct feeling of loneliness plus a laptop does not, in fact, equal a very fun time.) he'd have to be blind to miss the decorations. Proud little flags, dozens at least, poking out of every square inch available to the man, fluttering happily in the breeze. Red, white, and blue flowers covered every lick of space the flags couldn't. And then there were the wreaths, which were of course, the absolute most garish shade of all three colors that could possibly be found on this planet. Dark eyes, ringed with bags he'd picked up on what he guessed would be the third day of too little sleep, raked the scene, picking past all the patriotism and peering through the vivid haze of national pride. He could hardly see the headstone beneath all the decorations. Finally, there were no more steps for him to take; no more time for him to procrastinate.

 

He faced the grave with an expression harder than the stone Steve's name had been etched onto; big and bold, nearly impossible to miss. Not like he didn’t deserve all the bells and whistles. Tony swallowed hard, trying to choke down all his apprehension. He'd waited too long for this moment. Quickly, he knelt down before it, disregarding the realizations brought forward by his overactive mind, which was going into overdrive, desperately grasping at brightly colored, distracting straws to keep all the currently coinciding emotions at bay: 'I'm right over him now. His body. What _used_  to be him.' The thoughts struck him in grim succession and with nothing to break the silence, he could do nothing but let them run their course.

"Hey," And before he could stop himself, he was speaking to a stone. An inanimate object, for no other real reason, he knew, than the fact that it would make him feel a little better.  'I wonder what color his casket was.' His brow furrowed, hardly noticeable through those trademark, extra-reflective shades. Random bystanders wouldn't be privy to his quiet dilemma.

"Sorry I missed the funeral. I heard it was a pretty packed event." He offered a lame little half-smile, so stiff it felt more like a grimace. He'd heard from Barnes, who had remarked bitterly upon his distinct absence.

"I just wasn't. . I didn't. . I mean," His voice broke as he trailed off, gazing guiltily at the rock before him, which was somehow beginning to look quite disappointed in him. "I. . Don't have an excuse. I just didn't think I could do it. Sorry." He only got quieter as the sentence progressed, practically whispering the half-hearted apology when it came time. The decision seemed so childish, now. So stupid. Distractedly, he knocked a particularly ugly wreath aside with a careless hand, simply freeing up some space for him to rest said hand on. To touch Steve, now in the only way that he could. He could practically HEAR the lecture. An unsteady grin wobbled precariously upon his trembling lips as he read over the flat facts of the life of his friend. Dates and numbers and meaningless sentiments about his heroism. There was nothing about him as a person, though. Nothing about Steve had been so cold and unfeeling as this stone was determined to present him as. Tony realized abruptly that he still had the letter clutched in his free hand, and that it was no longer as neat and concise as he had spent so much time trying to make it. That was alright. Steve, of all people, knew he could be a little messy. A little careless. Lying the envelope as flat as he could make it with one crumpled edge on the trimmed, bared earth before him, he stroked his thumb over a cold edge, hardly registering the sensation; he just felt so NUMB. Numb to all of it. Days had came and went since he received the news, and he still didn't know if he believed it or not. There was something to be said about the fact that he was kneeling on Rogers' grave, and still not quite convinced that Steve was gone. This place was just too. . Cold. Too cold to contain the blazing fire Rogers had possessed within him. Tony rose to his feet immediately after that, not even bothering to brush off the dirt clinging to his four-figure, custom-made suit, before his lip started to tremble again. He was dancing a dangerous edge, and he knew this. Thoughts raced through his mind before logic or reason could intercept. Some part of him wanted to stay here, knelt beside Steve forever. For what little he had left of his life, and for the possibility of the next, he just wanted to stay here. This might be as close as he would be able to get for all of eternity, and he was almost okay with that. Suddenly it seemed as though every reason he had for wanting to carry on with his life was carefully enclosed in a snug box, secure in the earth with a few feet of freshly turned dirt over it. He turned away with no small amount of determination, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek to distract from his pain with more pain-- this kind was just a bit easier to manage. Copper coated his tongue within seconds, and the sharp sting was the push he needed to get him to take that first step away. One foot in front of the other, he kept his eyes trained firmly ahead of him. One moment of weakness would be all it took to have him running back, and he knew deep down that he probably shouldn't ever go back there. Closure eluded him still, and the little visit hadn't worked out quite the way he'd hoped; all the 'almosts' and 'what ifs' seemed to swarm his mind all at once. He slipped into his still-running car, preoccupied with nice thoughts of him and Rogers that he knew both couldn't have ever happened, and now never would. That wouldn't stop him dreaming, though. And he left the cemetery with exactly one clear thought in his mind; he would be coming back very soon.


End file.
